


Three Impossible Things (Before Breakfast)

by Livia_LeRynn



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Canon Injury, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hangover, Healing, It’s not important to the story, Light Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Stuff, Morning After, Or prelude to shipping, Platonic cuddling if that’s how you roll, You Decide, did they or didn’t they?, you make the call
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-05 15:25:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14621565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Livia_LeRynn/pseuds/Livia_LeRynn
Summary: Something impossible has happened: Max just spent a night at the Citadel by his own free will.  Now what?Exchange present for Splinter who asked for a snuggling fic in one request and some hurt/comfort in another: why not both?





	Three Impossible Things (Before Breakfast)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Splinter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splinter/gifts).



Max jerks himself away from the heat of a body at his back. The surface beneath him ends abruptly; his bad leg caves beneath him, and he ends up sprawled on the floor. He grunts as he lands and then scrambles to a crouch and an about-face. 

Furiosa stirs, and so does his memory. He is here, in her room at the Citadel, because she let him in. His leg brace is hung carelessly from a hook in her wall because she helped him out of it. There are his boots, one turned on its side and the other slumped against the soft slippers she’d been wearing the night before. He remembers the flash of skin as she drew her feet under her blanket before she extinguished her oil lamp. 

He holds his breath now, his panic having turned from the rush of defensive instinct to a different impulse entirely. Has he disturbed her? He makes himself small as he watches for her eyes to open. They flutter, but they stay closed

Her face is soft, relaxed in the gentle light. Her bruises have mostly faded, and the places where her skin split on impact have turned to recessed, pink lines on her tanned complexion. The bits of silver in her hair look… he catches himself before he thinks the word… chrome. He wants to touch her, to hold his fingers to her wrist and his cheek just below her nose while he watches her chest rise and fall just to be certain.

He remembers the night before as if it were a story he’d read or a film he’d seen back when such things still existed. He can’t believe her words were for him, her voice somehow both strong and quivery as her entire being drifted towards and and away and towards again like the flickering of a candle flame. He decides it was just the Buzzard vodka, that there was no other explanation for kind words leaving her mouth in his direction, let alone the smile in her eyes and the flush to her cheeks. 

“Thank you,” she’d said, her voice tangled in her throat. There were other words too, they’d burst from her and left her wobbly and exhausted in their wake. They were heavy words; Max still feels himself buckling under their weight.

Her presence is overwhelming. It’s not just her; it’s her water canteen on her shelf, her boots waiting patiently for her feet, her work at her desk, her writing in white chalk on the stone walls, her blanket dangling from her bed… her sliver of skin showing between the bottom of her bandages and top of her leather pants, their fly left open for comfort. She sighs, and Max holds his breath until she hugs her middle and draws her long legs up. Then Max lets his breath out slowly between barely parted lips. 

_“You don’t deserve this.”_ The voice is just a whisper, cold, dry, certain.

 _“Go away.”_. That one almost sounds like her. It stings like a whip and jolts Max to full awareness.

He can’t leave; she’ll hear him and wake up. She may have relaxed last night, let ease creep into her spine and music move her hips, but she’s a warrior. The sounds of that heavy door opening would never escape her notice. And sleep, sleep is precious, especially like this, deep and safe. 

_”Where are you Max?”_

_“What are you doing here?”_

The voices run together like a swarm of buzzing flies.

_“You don’t deserve this.”_

They’re right; he doesn’t. He’d never thought otherwise. The voices join together in an undifferentiated drone. He closes his eyes as his hands hover over his ears, not quite pressing because that would really be crazy. 

Max bolts to her water trough in the darkened corner of where the stone walls of Furiosa’s room narrows enough to give some small measure of privacy. He turns on the faucet so the sound of the tap echoes. It’s not enough. The voices just shout instead of hiss. He splashes the cool water onto his face.

_“Get out.”_

Max fills a bucket with water and then plunges his head. Water fills his ears. He holds his breath. He waits, his hair lifted up from his face floating like the tentacles of some long forgotten sea creature. 

_“You’re a monster.”_

Max jerks his head up with a gasp. The room is silent now except for the sounds of water dripping. He closes his eyes and tries to think of nothing but the movement of droplets down his face. Some are quick and heavy. Others slow and thin, leaving bits of themselves behind wherever they go. _Water_ \- it’s still a bit like touching the impossible. Its presence makes the hairs on his arms stand up. 

_“Three impossible things before breakfast.”_. That’s Glory juggling a wordburger from a book she would probably be just about the right age to appreciate. 

_“How far does the Buzzard hole go?”_ he asks since he doubts she’s even seen a rabbit that wasn’t in a cage. 

_“Count them,”_ Glory orders as she turns off the faucet… or maybe that’s just Max’s own hand.

Plumbing isn’t terribly extraordinary. It’s just human ingenuity, which Max knows too well in all its worst forms. But the fact that there is water in the pipes, water that both happen to exist in the same time and place and that someone has deemed him worthy to marvel at them as he closes his dirt-caked fingers on the metal faucet… “Running Water.” 

He stares into the shard of mirror hanging by a wire. Max can’t remember the last time he saw himself. Now he is a stranger, a tired, raggedy stranger. _Raggedy_ … he’s been called many things, many words, _feral, crazy, fool…_. He can’t refute any of them. He’s hairy about the face too, twenty or so days’ growth by the look of it. 

He sheds his clothing like a skin, peeling his shirt away for the first time in he can’t remember how long. Then he takes a blade from his vest and what he thinks is a bar of soap from a metal shelf. It’s her soap, and the soft cloth is her cloth, and the lather he builds is her lather, and together, that soap and that cloth and that lather have… He feels heat rising from his ears. 

He peers tentatively around the curve of the wall to catch a glimpse of her. Still asleep. He jerks his attention away before the the panic in his belly can get anymore out of control. 

He used to be fairly adept at shaving. He could do it by touch, no mirror necessary. Now his hands shake too much, his hair is too thick, and his skin is too rough. He leans close the the mirror shard and holds his skin taunt with his left hand. Plane by plane, he reveals the contours of his face. If he focuses closely enough, he can ignore the wildness in his eyes.

He should shower too. He gives himself a sniff. He smells… like an animal… and if he’s going to do as he agreed, stay long enough for his car to be fixed… The days stretch before him, gathering and clumping, choking him like thick smoke… He should at least smell human. 

He shuffles his way out of his pants while holding to the wall for balance. Socks take a little more effort and a lot more creativity. He hesitates to go beyond that. It’s not any specific fear, nothing he can place, but even here, the thought of being with nothing, no weapons, nothing, just soap, water and himself is too overwhelming. Logic wins out in the end, and he finds himself naked beneath a torrent. 

He stands still, lost in falling water. He just shakes along with the droplets hitting the stone and his skull. They send chills down his spine. He tilts his chin back so the water hits his face and runs into his eyes and nose. There used to be a word for this feeling. He lets out a single puff of air, clearing his nostrils, and shakes out his hair. He doesn’t look down; he doesn’t want to see the clear water turned brown from his touch. 

_Showers_ – even in the old days they were special, a time and a place separate from everything else and yet… Steam could trick him into feeling safe. He remembers a hand on his back, a soft but steady palm as his tears joined the droplets in running down his face. Hard days could sneak up, hidden behind the plastic curtains and sheets of water. In the same way Jessie’s palm became a full embrace, swaying with him as sobs racked his chest between his frantic efforts to scrub the day’s blood from his skin. It wasn’t the sound of a bullet still buzzing in his ear or the sight of the fallen family that got to him. It wasn’t even the feeling of the officer’s blood squirting between Max’s too narrow fingers and then turning to nothing. It was the fact that this was just another day, and back then he still had the capacity to be affected by them, back when he was young and smooth, callouses just beginning to form. 

Max turns off the water. He stares at nothing in particular as water runs down his body. All is still. All is quiet. There’s just the gentle whistle of Furiosa’s breathing, not quite a snore. Max wraps himself in the towel that smells the least like her. Everything smells too much like her. 

He leans against the wall to dress himself. He doesn’t trust his bad leg to hold him on its own, its muscles too weak, its ligaments too brittle, its bones too spurred and rough. Even with the wall to his back climbing into his pants is challenging. He doesn’t even need Glory to push him; his bad knee gives out, and he ends up sprawled on the wet stone. He scrambles up, but in his chaotic efforts to force his limbs into obedience, he ends up kicking over the metal bucket. Metal scrapes against stone. He jerks up his pants a little higher and pulls the towel over the rest while tentatively peering out at the rest of the room.

Furiosa is half out of bed, her full arm under her bedroll. She comes up empty handed but undeterred. She turns to him, her body twitching for a fight. Her eyes are wild, but they soften once she meets Max’s gaze. She blinks. Of all the things in the world she never expected to see, the feral fool slinking around her wet corner with newly cleaned hair has to be near the top of that list. Then her adrenaline fades to grogginess, and she winces as she eases herself upright and then back to bed. She rubs her eyes, first with her hand, and then by burying her whole face into her pillow. 

At least she isn’t kicking him out, not that Max thinks she would, but he suspects sharing a sleeping space is as usual anoccurrence for her as it for him. He looks away, collects his things, and returns to dressing himself. Whatever happens, at least he’ll be dressed; that’s about as close to ready as he can manage. 

He’s cleaning his teeth when Furiosa bursts past him. “Make room. Gotta piss.” That’s all the mind she pays him. She shoves her underwear aside, holds a funnel to her front, and presses her short arm to the wall as she empties her bladder into the trough as if Max weren’t even there. He tries not to watch.

“What?” she growls. 

Max buries his face in his (no, her) towel under the pretence of drying his hair. 

Then her voice softens. “Guess you aren’t used to company.”

She washes up, still propping herself against the wall. She cleans her teeth and her face, leaving the water droplets to cling to her skin. She stares ahead, not quite into her reflection not quite into nowhere. Then a coughing spasm hits, and she holds herself about the ribs while she hacks, gags and spits. She looks worn but pleased, almost soft, and Max aches right along with her. She sips some water and closes her eyes as she swallows purposefully.

Max doesn’t want to say anything, but how few days has it been since death was pushing the breath from her chest? Can she still get infected? Is she already? “You…”

“Overdid it last night,” she admits as she rubs the muscles of her abdomen. He’s not sure if she means the drinking or the physical activity, probably both.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s good for me. I’ve been lazy.”

Max can’t imagine that being true, but he’s been injured enough to know how maddening successful convalescence can be, and from what little he knows of Furiosa, she doesn’t seem the type to take it easy. He looks away as she stretches sleep from her muscles and focuses on his own rehydration while she wraps a long cardigan over her scrap shirt. Then she slings her canteen over her shoulder by its strap and steps into her slippers. Max can’t help noticing that even half healed and at least half hungover she still moves with a certain power and grace. 

“You hungry?” she asks. “I’m going for brekkie.” She seems considerably less hungry than Max feels between her tiny groans and her little burps, but her voice indicates that this is non-negotiable. “I can bring something back for you.” The panic Max feels must show on his face because next she offers, “Or we can go out to the gardens. I won’t subject you to the mess hall. I just…” She pauses to cough, “need to make an appearance.”

Max nods. Outside does sound nice, sun and air and open space. Being free of all these walls might make remaining stationary just a little bit easier. 

“Then you’re coming with me.”

Max smells then mess hall before they reach it. The odour of cooking fats practically assaults them while they are still on the lift, and Max’s mouth waters eagerly. Furiosa, however, clenches her jaws and practically throws herself out of the lift as soon as it jerks to a stop. Max sets his hand on her shoulder in a feeble attempt to lend her some stability. 

She straightens her back. “Let’s get this over with.”

The walls echo with the hum of conversation. None of the words are distinguishable, and so Max’s mind twists and shapes them. _“Back to the shed, Bloodbag.”_ He presses onward, his fingers pressing into Furiosa’s shoulder. _“You shouldn’t be here. You can’t be here.”_

“Quiet today,” she muses.

Max shrugs his agreement even though Furiosa’s eyes are forward. 

_“Stop.” Max obeys the voice. _“Now get out.”__

Furiosa turns to look at him. “This as far as you go?”

He hates the idea of abandoning her even if it is to her own people in her own territory, but his feet are lead. Just removing his hand from her shoulder takes almost all his willpower. He forces a nod as if his answer weren’t already clear enough.

_“This is no place for you. Go!”_

“That was the original plan,” Furiosa reminds him. “I’ll try to be quick. You’re my excuse for cutting off conversations.”

She hesitates, eyes lowered as she thinks, and Max stands beside her in momentary certainty that she will make him promise not to fang for the outside. She never does; she just finishes her train of thought and then off she goes in the direction of the voices and the smells while Max tries to disappear into a wall.

If she did ask for a promise, could he give it? When she asked him to stay while his car was rebuilt, he only promised to try. That seemed like enough. Who knew how long the work would take? Who knew if the Citadel had all the right parts? But this would be only asking for a few minutes.

A pair of Citadel residents passes by, perhaps a couple, not War Boys, ordinary people, the kind he hasn’t seen in ages. Max tries not to listen to their conversation, but he picks up words like _laundry_ and _mending_. Then one steals a kiss from the other who giggles but doesn’t withdraw.

 _”She thinks you’re reliable,”_ a voice scoffs. _“She doesn’t know.”_

He wants to be reliable. He wants to be the sort of man who stays, who doesn’t need to promise. He wants his touch to be safe and steady when nothing else is. He wants to be brave and true and all the things stories used to say good men were supposed to be. He used to be that sort of person even if it seems impossible at present. Lot of good it did him. Lot of good it did anyone.

_“You can’t. You can’t. Just a raggedy, feral, twitchy, fool…”_

He clamps his hands over his ears and closes his eyes. He tells himself that running would be foolish, that he would get lost, end up somewhere louder and darker and more crowded. But if he waits, if he can just stay here a little longer, Furiosa will be back. He closes his eyes and draws a long, deep inhale. She will have food; he will have food. His stomach growls its approval of this plan.

A draft moves across his skin. He opens his eyes.

 _“Boo,”_ Glory giggles and sticks out her tongue then pokes him firmly in the chest. _“You owe me two more things.”_ He shoos her away, and she scampers off, passing through Furiosa before disappearing into a wall.

Furiosa has a tightness about her mouth from some combination of weariness and exasperation. She sighs and softens as she approaches as if shedding a worn skin. “Girls were chatty,” she offers as an explanation for the wait. 

Max doesn’t know what he was expecting when Furiosa first mentioned breakfast. Even though the fatty smell strongly reminded him of bacon, he wasn’t about to entertain such a thought, but here it is: striped, wavy strips of... he isn’t going to venture a guess as to what kind of meat. 

“Bacon,” he says aloud as he examines the brittle edges in cautious disbelief.

“Yeah.” Furiosa thrusts the tray into his arms.

There’s also some potato porridge, familiar from his Bloodbag days and berries he doesn’t recognise, round, bright, and dark. Max draws another deep inhale and plots holding the tray on one arm while fitting the other side against the wall so he can try to dig in now. He hesitates. There must be mountains of berries and bacon in this place; Furiosa wouldn’t accept such luxuries otherwise. Even so, he is equally torn between savouring the sights and smells of breakfast and succumbing to his animal instincts to stuff them in his belly before they disappear.

He looks to Furiosa as if to ask permission, but she is occupied first with coughing and then with rubbing a knot out of her full arm. She bends and extends her elbow as she presses her stump to the crease. She looks up at him, and his gaze repels hers as if their eyes are magnets. Even though it’s hidden beneath her cardigan sleeve, he knows the spot well.

“Funny how the little things can be the slowest to heal,” she says dryly.

“Is it…” He wants to say, _infected_ and yet he doesn’t. He wants to know and yet he doesn’t. He refuses to think that he might have planted bugs in her that will grow to...

“It’s fine.”

She starts walking before he can say anything, not that he has anything to say. She leads him up the lift again and across a skywalk that shakes when she coughs. She tightens her mouth and her grip on the rope guardrails as she squints against the sun.

“You good with stairs?” she asks as they stop before a metal staircase though a nearly vertical shaft.

”Mm-hm.”

The staircase is almost more of a ladder considering it’s sharp angle and narrow steps. It flows through a narrow cavity, reversing the path carved by rain eons ago. Perforated steps and a pair of handrails are painted a once-slick black, probably to keep out the rust.

“I’m not supposed to be doing stairs yet.” She clears her throat and pops her hip. “Stitches.”

Max grunts in understanding and makes his way up. He wasn’t exactly truthful when he acknowledged being, “good with stairs.” He’s passable on them, not the quickest or the smoothest, but passable, especially when he’s fresh. Today, however, he is slow and creaky. He feels his every hesitation as keenly as he feels Furiosa’s eyes on his back. Every soft scrape of his brace against a stair bounces off the stone. He wills himself to be steady even though he has no free hand to grab the railing; he wills his knee to keep bending and extending even as it starts to ache. When his fingers start to cramp and his grip threatens to fail, he shifts his left hand to the tray’s underside as she had done. He will not drop their breakfast. 

It all strikes him as a bit ridiculous: he and Furiosa survived the wasteland together, topped a despot, and took his kingdom, but here they are approaching a set of stairs and a breakfast tray as if going into battle. This is harder in a way. He has known little aside from road wars in his adult life, and the way Furiosa holds herself makes him doubt she has either.

His knee is whining for a good pop by the time he’s near the top. There’s only a metal grate between the dark interior and the outside. He sets the tray on the step beside him so he can work the latch on the grate. The tray is still, but it’s close enough to teetering to make him want to hold his breath.

“Combo?” he calls when he finds a lock on he latch. He supposed it’s presence makes sense. Humans are a vicious and vindictive lot that wouldn’t think twice to steal such wealth or destroy it out of spite. He’s about to try the one he knows, but this lock has only numbers, no colours on its dial. 

“53-3-18”

The numbers must mean something, but he doesn’t know what. He remembers that much from his bronze days; sequences with meaning are easier to remember and more importantly, easier to devise when a new one is due. He wonders how many such sequences live within her mind. _10-5-19_ : that opened his working safe even though he wasn’t technically supposed to use such a personal sequence.

The dial whistles as he spins it, catching in some places and gliding through others. He spins too few times for the first number, too many for the next, and the lock stays shut. He gives it a frustrated shake before trying again. This time its pins align, and with a click, it opens. Max pushes the grate open and hardly looks outside while he slips the breakfast tray through and out of the way. He still has work to do.

The way down is quicker. He clunks his way from step to step until he is face to face with Furiosa. Then he steps aside to let her position herself. She coughs one more time and straightens her shoulders. For a fleeting moment Max thinks she might want his hands to hold her steady; he dismisses the thought as soon as it arises. Instead he stands behind her, his palms open, fingers spread not so much to catch her but to will her not to need him.

The first few steps are easy enough, but she tires quickly. She tries to hide it at first, but her hand grabs for the railing, and sweat beads on her forehead. A single cough, and then she’s pressing her stump to her ribs as she struggles to ease a stuck breath past her still healing wounds. She forges on, switching her approach so she is sliding her short arm along the rail while her right hand holds her middle.

She stumbles and catches herself, but not before her back brushes against Max’s hands. “Just a spot,” she snaps.

“I know.”

He doesn’t stop her when she lowers her bum to sit on the step or when she leans so the next stair up presses into her back. He waits while she mutters curses between gulps of air and whacks of her short arm against the railing. It’s only when she leans forward, letting her head droop between her knees that he offers to fetch her water from the tray.

She grabs the railing and hauls herself up with a frustrated grunt. “I’m fine. It’s just…”

“I know,” Max says again. He knows from the set of her jaw and the gritting of her teeth. He knows from the frown on her brow and and the white on her knuckles. 

She juts her chin forward. “Let’s go.” Her voice has warmed and softened, and there’s a smile in her eyes.

She climbs again, and none of the steps are easy. Max holds his hands centimetres from her, hovering, not quite touching her, just present as she ploughs ahead. The space between his flesh and hers stays steady, no poking, no coaxing. As much as his knee screams at him, he knows she hurts worse, and so he orders it into silence. He is there to be constant, reliable as a shadow that shrinks as the sun rises but always comes back. For this one small moment, Max doesn’t need Glory leading him to the top of the staircase. Every voice is silent spare Furiosa’s laboured breathing and the scraping of his brace.

She hauls herself through the open grate. She’s flushed and panting, eyes bright, mouth turned up with self-satisfaction. “Well, here we are. Ya right?”

The air is still, clear, and bright with a hint of moisture. Even the leaves seem to part for her as she walks along the garden path. They wave and brush against her, bending in awe as she passes. Impossible yields to impossible. The green rustles praises she doesn’t even think to notice. 

“Yeah.” He sneaks his finger between a strap and his pant leg to rub the effort from his knee. “You?”

She squats to collect the breakfast tray before she’s even caught her breath. She chews her lip in concentration as she eases the tray to a tilt so she can slide her short arm underneath. Then she rises with careful steadiness. Max would help, but her eyes tell him to back off; she’s got this. 

“I will be. She smirks as she she gestures to a soft spot where soil is packed and bare between the berry bushes and the tomato vines. “Let’s eat.”

“We’re not disturbing…”

“No, it’s just tilled soil, prepared for something new.” She grips his shoulder as she lowered herself to sitting. “Something good.” Her legs cross, rubbing dirt into her pants and the hem of her cardigan. Then she pats the ground beside her. “Don’t worry; the seeds aren’t even down yet.”

He sits behind her and places the breakfast tray beside them both. She leans forward, propping herself on her elbow as she eats. Her bites are small, and she chews slowly, easing the food into her body. Max is about to plunge practically head first into his bowl of stew when Glory interrupts.

 _“Mm-mm.”_ Glory points to the stew and shakes her head as she pouts. 

“Furiosa,” Max mumbles then shovels stew into his mouth before she has a chance to react.

She looks up, slice of bacon still half out of her mouth like a deformed tongue. She snaps it between her teeth. “What?”

Max just shrugs, not even slowing down as he fills his belly. Furiosa shrugs as well and washes down her bacon with a long drink of water. She belches softly and then sighs as she stretches. She doesn’t resist as Max guides her head onto the top of his shoulder. She turns her face towards him, and he cups his hand so he is shading her from the dappled but still bright sunlight. 

His fingers brush against her shorn hair, so much softer than it looks. The fading splashes of colour of the bruises on her face stir an ache it his chest. The progress her skin has made in knitting itself back together beneath now all but unnecessary scraps is almost magical. Furiosa shifts again, turning even deeper towards him so the smooth skin of her forehead is pressed against Max’s newly naked cheek, and her breath moves against the sensitive skin of his neck. 

“Hey,” she whispers as she lifts her head. “You ready to go back?”

It’s a heady mix, woman on his chest, belly full of food and green all around. If it weren’t for the way his belly is groaning from the shock of actual digestion, Max would swear none of this were real, and he’d fallen into a dream. He knows none of this can last. The sun will build its intensity; Furiosa will be missed, and Max’s head will fill with doubts as he grows restless. 

Despite all the panic in his throat and his belly, or perhaps because of it, he wants to stay in this moment just a little longer. He wants it to last while it can. Maybe its evanescence is what makes it manageable. For now he doesn’t run, and for now is enough. 

Heavy with drowsiness, he feels himself sinking into the earth. He thinks of roots, not the thick, knotted tendrils of ancient trees, but a fine network stretching out for water. Absentmindedly, he turns a leaf between his fingers without separating it from its stem. He runs his thumb over its veins.

“In a little.” Max pulls her closer and caresses her cheek. His fingers glide over the bones of her face and linger on her pulse just beneath her jaw.

“A little,” she echoes, and she groans almost imperceptibly as she slides onto his chest. Silhouetted leaves sway over them both and Furiosa slips into sleep.

The next time she wakes she will insist on going back. For now Max surrenders to his own drowsiness, the whisper of wind and breath, the smells of green and soil with hints of breakfast and soap. Max sighs, taking care to not disturb her. He closes his eyes for a heartbeat. 

When he open them again he sees Glory squatting in the dirt beside him. Is she after another impossible thing? She doesn’t say.

Max murmurs Furiosa’s words, “Well here we are,” because what fool, sage, or seer could have predicted such a turn of events. Glory says nothing, and the last thing Max sees before sleep takes him is a flash of white fur and the child scampering behind a bush in pursuit.

**Author's Note:**

> So the combos are:  
> 53-3-18 for Ecclesiastes 3, 1-8, which is the, “For everything there is a season,” passage.
> 
> 10-5-19 = J-E-S. 
> 
> And of course the “Three impossible things,” quote comes from Lewis Carroll.


End file.
